


Blessings

by redandwhiteroses



Series: Offerings and Blessings [2]
Category: Candyman (1992)
Genre: F/M, Post murder blood bath, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:00:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21851830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandwhiteroses/pseuds/redandwhiteroses
Summary: You receive a gift in return for your offering.
Relationships: Candyman x reader
Series: Offerings and Blessings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574314
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	Blessings

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous asked  
> I absolutely loved your piece with Candyman and the poem-writing reader, could I ask for a continuation/sequel to that? Maybe where they actually meet?

To the night I offered a flower

and the dark sky accepted it

like earth, bedding

for light.

To the desert I offered an apple

and the dunes received it

like a mouth, speaking 

for wind.

-Howard Altmann, Offerings

Your dreams are vivid, more vivid than they have ever been in your life. It almost feels like they made a switch, like black and white to technicolor or an old photo revitalized. Your daily life feels much the same way now. Something changed. You can’t tell exactly what did, but you know when it did. The night you left the poem by the mural of Candyman. Everything changed once you put your unspoken words onto concrete walls. 

You don’t feel like you’re alone anymore. In both the metaphorical and literal sense. 

A lot of it probably has to do with the silent acknowledgement of your offering. The painting that was left beside your coffee pot the next morning was beautiful. If you were honest, you honestly felt ethereal just looking at it. Whomever did it, and you had a fairly good idea of who it was, clearly took time and care with it. You had never felt so… Well, it felt funny to acknowledge, but in that moment, you never felt so loved. To feel that way from a painting confused you. How could something like that bring forth such emotion? Especially when you’ve never met the painter? Or at least, never met him in person?

You know the painter is there with you. It was almost impossible to miss. The infamous ghost, the urban legend, Candyman seemed to be with you wherever you went. You understood how it could have driven Helen Lyle crazy. She didn’t want the attention given to her, didn’t want to believe that myths could be real.

You do.

You quietly relish in the fact. At any given moment, he could decide to show himself to you, or you could call upon him. That kind of power feels heady. The knowledge that you could do what almost no one else in the world could do is just thrilling. It sends a shiver of delight down your spine anytime you think about it.

It takes a while for you to come down from the feeling. Eventually, you learn to hide it. People started questioning you, trying to pry into your life and see what it was that made you so happy. You didn’t want to tell them, didn’t want to share this secret with them. Besides, it was none of their business. And even if you wanted to tell them, what would you say? How could you say it without sounding crazy? 

You want to call upon him, you really do. But you don’t. You’re not entirely sure why you hesitate. Anxiety, maybe. You’re scared of his reaction. What if he decides to gut you, like the legend says? What if it was just a way to lure you in? All sorts of questions kept coming up, making you worry. So you never did. 

The day is dark and gloomy as you make your way back home. Your hands are in your pocket, head bent downward. It wasn’t raining yet, but it would. At any given moment, the sky would open up and the rain would swallow you whole. The thought was appealing. It had been a long, long day. Someone had joined the company recently, and he seemed hell bent on making your life miserable. He undermined everything you did and always tried to make you the villain. You could have lived with that, as unpleasant as it may have been, but it got worse. The reason he was doing this was because he had made a move on you. You had firmly, yet politely you thought, rejected him. 

His actions showed he wasn’t exactly a gracious person. 

He had threatened you today. Made it quite clear that if you didn’t accept his advances soon, you’d be out of job. Normally, something like that wouldn’t scare you, but this man had gotten so close to some of your higher-ups, you wouldn’t be surprised if he could pull it off. It didn’t help that you were the reliable one. The reliable one, as you had found out through experience, often got screwed once they decided to enforce boundaries. 

You stop for a moment on a corner. If you turned left down that road, you’d come across the mural that you had painted your poem on not too long ago. It seems like such a distant memory. You look, hesitating for just a second, but you decide against it. You had to go home, shore up your defenses in order to deal with what was coming your way. You move forward.

You stop, body going rigid.

Someone is calling your name. 

The voice is soft yet commanding. Dark undertones are laced under it, but something about it is ethereal. Almost as if it could belong to an angel. Certainly it couldn’t belong to a human. 

You hear your name again.

You don’t know why, but you can feel tears form at the corners of your eyes. The way this person says your name is so beautiful that it shakes you to your very core. You move, turn to face the road you were going to pass just seconds before. You don’t feel entirely in control of your body, and you’re not sure how you feel about it. Perhaps if it was under any other circumstances or because of any other being, you would, but you feel safe. Candyman wouldn’t hurt you. He had plenty of opportunities to do so before this point, so it would make no sense to do it now.

Daniel is standing in the shadow of a building. He’s on the edge of a shadow, so you can see him and make him out fairly well. He looks better than in some of the portraits you’ve seen of him. A long, dark coat made of expensive fur hangs off of his shoulders. Most of his body is hidden by the coat, but his hands… One is fine, but the other is a grisly stump with a wicked hook attached. It makes bile rise up in your throat. How could someone do something so brutal to another person? And seeing it in person made you understand just how awful it could be.

He says your name again.

“Daniel.” You breathe in return.

He moves towards you then with an amazing amount of grace. He moves like a wild cat would when stalking prey. Your eyelids flutter, and you find that you’re having a hard time keeping them open.

“I thought you might have forgotten me.” His baritone voice sends vibrations throughout your entire being, lighting every nerve with pleasant fire. You shake your head. You can’t seem to form words, to speak. He gives you a small smile, and you feel as if you could melt in that moment. 

“You did something for me. I have never received such a grand gesture.” He’s almost beside you now. His hand reaches up and gently, he touches your face. He hesitates before he makes contact, almost as if he’s making sure that you’re okay with it. Something in your eyes must tell him you are. The back of his fingers slide against your cheek, and you find yourself leaning into the touch. He watches you raptly. 

“People have come from all over to look at the mural.” His voice is soft. “Your words have created a larger flock, something I didn’t think possible.” He pauses and lets out an amused noise. “You created your own legend without my help. People wonder who could have written such sweet words for a murderous legend.” His hand stop, fingers lightly resting against your cheek and close to your mouth. The look in his eyes is intense, almost worshipful. You find that you want him to look at you like that all the time. 

“I shall help yours in return.” He breathes out. He’s looking at your lips, and you want to kiss him, you do, but you can’t mo-

The world goes black.

When you wake up, you’re lying on the floor. You can see your sofa and sit up to move, but you stop. Something doesn’t feel right. Your clothes are soaked and warm, sticking unpleasantly to your skin. You roll onto your side. The rug is covered with dark red stains. You knew what it was from the feeling on your skin, but to get visual confirmation of the substance being blood makes you want to hurl. A noise catches your attention. Your tv flickers to life. It’s going to a new channel. You frown slightly.

“Again, if anyone has any tips or hints that could catch this man’s murderer, please call the hotline.” You can’t pay attention to the number the reporter says. All you can see is the picture of the coworker bent on making your life miserable on-screen. 

Your phone buzzes. You don’t have to look at it to know that your coworkers are texting each other, making sure everyone is okay. You close your eyes. What do you say? How do you answer it?

First thing’s first. Slowly, hesitantly, you stand, trying not to get blood on anything else. Take a shower. Get the blood out of the carpet, text your coworkers to tell them you’re fine, and get cleaned up in case the police show up to talk to you.

You had no intention of making the mistakes Helen Lyle did.


End file.
